Listen
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "He didn't expect her to come. Not so easily, anyway. He'd planned to beg. To make a big deal out of the way Kyra had insisted. She had, after all. Kyra. He wonders how much she has to do with this. What she might have said to Beckett and if this is pity. How entirely this is pity. He doesn't care, exactly. Because he's lonely and she came with him." A Rose Forever After Tag (2x12)


Title: Listen

Rating: T

Word Count: ~1800

Summary: "He didn't expect her to come. Not so easily, anyway. He'd planned to beg. To make a big deal out of the way Kyra had insisted. She had, after all. _Kyra_. He wonders how much _she _has to do with this. What she might have said to Beckett and if this is pity. How entirely this is pity. He doesn't _care_, exactly. Because he's lonely and she came with him." Episode tag for A Rose Forever After (2 x 12)

* * *

She follows him.

He doesn't expect it. He hasn't expected anything she's been up to in the last couple of days. Surveilling him and coming up empty when he called her on it. The pretty rose blouse or the gauzy strands of her necklace with crystals that catch the light.

He didn't expect her to come. Not so easily, anyway. He'd planned to beg. To make a big deal out of the way Kyra had insisted. She had, after all. _Kyra_.

He wonders how much _she _has to do with this. What she might have said to Beckett, and if this is pity. How _entirely_ this is pity.

He doesn't _care_, exactly. Because he's lonely, and she came with him. Accepted the second-hand invitation without coaxing. Without him having to plead, and anyway, he loves the severe elegance of her like this. Sharp-creased trousers and a blouse that probably spends its time far back in her closet.

He loves that she's standing in the doorway right now. That she has a bottle in one hand and the bouquet dangling from her fingers, pointed at the floor. That she's a stark, striking silhouette clipped out of the darkness on his side of the threshold. He loves how entirely she belongs on this side.

He loves that she came at all. He loves that she followed.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey." He turns on the stool. Leans on his elbow with his head propped on a palm and regards her.

She ducks her head. Takes a step and another step over the threshold, like she's not sure she's welcome.

His free hand gestures. Does away with the question entirely, and he knows she's smiling even before she's close enough to see. Even before she sets down the bottle with a pointed thunk and sprawls over the bar to come up with two glasses. Even before she settles into her rightful place at his side, he knows she's smiling. That she's relieved.

She pours for them both. Something dark. Nothing with bubbles, and he's thankful for that, somehow. Accepts with a nod when she pushes the stem into his hand and drinks from her own without toasting.

He's glad for that, too. That she knows without him saying that he's happy for Kyra. That he wishes her and Greg the best, but he's not quite up to drinking to it right now.

He's glad, but he doesn't expect that, either. Quiet indulgence from her. A plus one at his pity party, if that's what this is.

If it is, he doesn't care. She tops off his glass again and again. She's not quite keeping pace, but he's not quite drinking alone, either. More in his glass every time, but not nothing in hers. She came. She's with him tonight, and he'll take it.

The reception spills in. She left the door cracked and they're not quite alone in the darkness. There's laughter and the sounds of the small band. A lot of joyful noise for so few people, and he wonders if she knows that's good for him. He wonders if maybe she's just nervous. If she's keeping track of the exits.

She doesn't seem nervous, though. There's a lot of silence between them. Companionable with the regular ring of glassware on the bar and the fall of wine into crystal as she steadily pours.

"Tell me something," she says when the wine is almost gone.

He looks up expectantly. Attentive and waiting, but the question never comes.

She scowls at him, annoyed that he's not following.

"Tell me something," she says again, and she surprises him. Again. It's a habit tonight. She reaches out and traces the tiny flower at his lapel.

Her fingernails are neat. Short and practical with a clear coat of polish. He doesn't know why he notices, except he danced with Kyra earlier, and hers are long and squared off with crystals set into the tips. A fancy wedding manicure not meant for the simple dress she wound up in. It's the contrast, he supposes. Her and Kate. It must be why he notices now.

"Castle." She's _definitely_ annoyed, but her fingers don't quite fall away when she tugs on his jacket and brings him back to the moment. "Tell me something she doesn't know."

She says it boldly. A command, though she dips her head and lets her hair drift forward to hide her eyes.

"Kyra?" He sounds startled. He can't help it, even though he should be used to it by now. Expecting the unexpected from her.

"Kyra," she says and her hand does fall away then. It lands on the bar, and her fingers worry at the ribbon wound tight around the stiff little forest of stems. "Tell me something she doesn't know about you."

He thinks hard, but he's stalling for time. He knows already, though he's not sure how. He doesn't know why, and he doesn't really care, but he wants to draw the moment out. The wine is low in the bottle and it must be late, but he'll keep her with him in this darkness as long as he can.

"I was seven." He swings his stool in her direction, then thinks better of it. He spins the other way and tilts his head. His fingers come up to brush the prominence behind his left ear. The hard place that aches sometimes, though they call it phantom pain.

He twists his head toward her, but she's nodding along. She knows what he's talking about. Of course she does.

She'd noticed right away. Maybe not that first evening. Everything carries inside the box, and she was angry. Impatient with him, and loud enough that hearing every pissed off word wasn't a problem, whatever side she was one. Not that first evening, but soon enough after.

It's a tic he's never been able to rid himself of, tipping that ear up like it will help. Listening hard to nothing. To the _whoosh_ and constant, low ring that's been with him since he was seven. Listening and then remembering. Swiveling his chin—his good ear—toward the action. It's a fraction of a second, always, but she'd noticed right away. Of course she had.

She's inclined to use it, even now. To step up on his left and pitch her words low. She gets a kick out of it that's not entirely nice. Enjoys the way she moves his body around the world. The way it's ever turning toward her. As if it wouldn't be without this. As if it isn't always.

"Seven," she says, and that's all. She sips at her wine, but he knows she's eager. He knows from the lean on her elbows and the shallow quiet of her breath. She's listening.

"It was fall. I should have been in school." He remembers that part suddenly. Something he hadn't thought about until now. "But mother had a run that got extended, and I begged to stay."

"And Martha gave in." She smiles wide at that. Like she knows, but it wasn't that easy.

He shakes his head. "She didn't want to. It was a pain to have me."

"No!" she says, indignant. Like she's picturing a version of him she could be fonder of.

He likes that. He's grateful for it. Another thing he doesn't expect. "I took a lot of . . . managing."

He doesn't need to turn to know the look she's giving him. _Oh, REALLY? _it says, and he presses his lips together as he stares down hard at the bar. It's a funny story, but it hurts, too. All these memories surfacing out of order, now that he's telling it.

"There was a particularly drunken nanny for a few weeks."

He remembers her name. Astrid, but for some reason he doesn't want to say it. It feels like blame, and really, it's no one's fault.

Beckett nods silently, urging him on, but the timeline fails him. Something he wouldn't usually worry about. He's spinning a story, but this one's for her and the one-thing-after-another of it matters more.

"I was sick?" He turns his face to her, trying to remember. "There was a beach party, and I wanted to go."

"The playboy even then, Castle?" She empties the bottle into his glass. Thinks better of it and tips a little into her own, precise and careful. Exactly fair, even in the dark.

"Even then." He clinks his glass against hers. It feels right now, where it didn't before. It sounds right. "By the time we got back to the house I had a fever. Bad."

The outside world quiets. A slow song, and he thinks the band must be winding down.

She notices. She turns to the doorway, then back to him. He wonders for a second if he should wrap the story up. How polite she's being, and if letting her off the hook is the gentlemanly thing to do.

She's the one who decides it, though. She touches his arm. She looks up at him, eager to know, and he thinks there's nowhere she needs to be right now. That she's not just being polite. He wonders again what Kyra had to say to her.

"Do you remember?" She pulls the corner of her lip between her teeth. "It must have been . . . strange."

"Strange." He nods. "Scary. My mother was terrified. She did ice baths and rubbed my skin down with alcohol all night."

He shivers all these years on, remembering the rough wash cloth. Remembering how he hated it and pleaded with her to stop waking him every hour. Kate shivers at his side, like she's picturing it.

It moves him, that empathy. How carefully she's listening. How she's wrapped up in the story.

His throat is thick all of a sudden, and she knows. She looks quickly down at the bouquet and back up at him. She wants to know, but she's being nice. She's worried that it's hard for him, and it is, though not the way she thinks.

"And then it was gone?" Curiosity wins out. She makes a gesture at her own ear. Fingertips bunching together to tap surfaces and fly apart. "All the sound gone, just like that?"

"No," he says slowly. The days are jumbled. They shoulder past each other. "It's not all gone even now. It just . . . it's not words or sounds. Not one by one. It . . ." He taps his fingertips on the bar. Against the foot of the glass, fast. He motions to the ripples shivering over the surface of the wine. "It buzzes like that. And rings when it's bad."

"I didn't know."

She looks sorry. Sorry for him. Sorry for asking maybe, and he doesn't want that. He brushes his fingers over the back of her hand. Stills them in the act of pulling a delicate stem from the drooping bunch. It's late.

"I do ok." He presses his fingertips to her skin a second. Underlining. Reassuring.

She pauses. Cocks her head and considers it. She pulls the flower free and makes a sudden decision. She swings toward him on her stool and tucks the white petals behind his ear. Scent surrounds the two of them. Evening primrose, sweet and wilting.

"You do ok," she agrees. "When you listen."


End file.
